Default Settings
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Soul Survivor tag: Dean might be human again, but there's still some things they need to do before they're back to good.


**Default Settings**  
 **K Hanna Korossy**

So. He'd died. Become a demon. Tried to kill Sam. Just another day at the office.

Yeah, not so much. Even for them, and that was saying something.

Dean shook his head as he levered the door out of the back of the Men of Letters truck he'd borrowed. Balancing it against his shoulder and head, he maneuvered it through the garage door and into the bunker.

"Honey, I'm home!" he called, less of a joke than it usually was. It hadn't escaped him how Sam sometimes flinched when Dean accidentally snuck up on him. Unconsciously, of course: Dean believed his brother had forgiven him and didn't hold his homicidal phase against him. Still. He'd tried to bash Sam's head in. Anything he could do to not remind Sam of that was a good thing.

Sam appeared at the end of the hallway in the library doorway. "You want a hand?"

"When you've only got one?" Dean scoffed. "Just get out of the way so I don't whack you."

A second later, his words sunk in, and his step stuttered.

Sam must've heard it, too, but his smile was only rueful as he stepped aside, letting Dean past.

Dean could barely look him in the eye. But Sam's unexpected swat of his shoulder as he passed made him suck in a breath again.

His route took him by the hole in the wall he'd patched just that morning, where he'd swung that hammer at Sam and missed. Dean studied the spot as he went by; it should be ready for a coat by that evening. He had a can of color-matched paint waiting in the truck. He wanted to make sure it would be invisible when he was done. Neither he nor Sam needed the reminder.

He reached the electrical room with its gaping doorway. The door he'd chopped through to get to Sam had already been removed, he saw, and he gave an aggrieved glance back toward the library. Sam was supposed to be taking it easy, not repairing damage Dean had inflicted on anything that stood in the way of his murdering his brother. Still, he wasn't ungrateful not to see the busted door, the hacked splinters littering the floor. Sam had even taken the old hinges off: they lay in a pile by the doorway. Dean shook his head again, reluctantly touched.

"Thanks," he called back toward the library.

"Shut up," filtered back.

He actually found himself smiling as he replaced the door that earlier that week had protected his brother from him.

00000

His arm ached. It had been getting better, mostly just the occasional twinge when he moved wrong. Then Sam had to go after a demon, a demon in Dean's skin, so he'd forgone most of his usual precautions.

Subduing Dean, getting him to the car, to the dungeon, had been hard enough. Then Dean had broken out and gone after him. It had been a deadly game of black-eyed lion and handicapped gazelle that the gazelle had to win, for both their sakes. He had but, crap, his arm was still giving him Hell for it.

Considering the alternatives, Sam wasn't complaining.

It pretty much kept him on the bench, however, as Dean settled back into home and fixed up the damage his demonic self had done. Well, the bad arm and Dean's unnecessary guilt; Sam didn't need a PhD in his brother to know Dean was doing home-repair penance. As if any of this was his fault.

They weren't going to talk about it, of course: that really would be the end of the world. So Sam did the next best thing. He made meat-heavy sandwiches and stocked the beer. He cleaned up the remnants of Dean's stay in the dungeon and the shattered door. He did one-handed laundry and fielded the "how's Dean doing?" calls from the few people who knew and loaded the dishwasher. And right now, he was cleaning out the car.

He was pretty sure that was part of Dean's penance, too. His brother had barely even looked at his baby since he'd been cured, which was high on the _Something's Wrong with Dean_ list. Could be he remembered how little he'd cared for the car as a demon. Or kept thinking of Sam driving them back to the bunker with Dean cuffed and hateful in the back seat. Today, Sam was choosing to think his brother was just repulsed by the amount of trash he'd allowed to collect in her, the most visible sign of his disinterest. And one thing Sam could fix. So he'd hauled out a trash bag and started cleaning.

The fast food wrappers weren't a surprise. Nor the panties. The bloody, crumpled speeding ticket made Sam cringe. He hoped the cop was still alive; for all demon-Dean's amorality, Sam was pretty sure he hadn't killed any innocents. Dad's journal was stuffed carelessly under the driver's seat, and Sam rubbed a thoughtful finger over one corner of it before he tucked it into the trunk. It would've been easy to trash, but corrupted-Dean hadn't even done that.

In his pain over Gadreel and Dean's betrayal, Sam had shot some angry, spiteful, _cruel_ words at his brother. It had taken Dean becoming a demon to return the favor. And Dean had forgiven him even as it cost him his life—and then his humanity—while Sam had nursed his grudge. Honestly, Dean chasing him around the bunker with a hammer barely registered on his radar after all that.

"You don't have to do that."

He looked up to see Dean standing a few feet away, paint can dangling from one hand. The reproach on his face was clearly for himself, however.

Sam shrugged as he straightened. "My car, too, right?"

Dean's hand strayed to a dusty corner of the bumper, like he couldn't help himself. "I was the one who messed her up."

"I was the one who let you," Sam said, defiantly meeting his gaze, his own hand curled over the top of the passenger-side door. His door.

Dean squirmed. "Sam…"

"I'm not washing her, though."

Dean snorted. "Like you ever do."

"And it's gonna take some airing to get the sulfur smell out," Sam plowed on.

He saw the tiny wince, deep in Dean's shadowed eyes.

"Wanna bet they make pie-scented air freshener?" Sam quirked a smile.

Dean watched him as if he were a live bomb. There was a beat or three, then his brother said, warily, "'Surprised you're not looking for one that smells like old books."

Sam's smile grew. "Not if I don't want to listen to you bitch wherever we go."

Dean actually rolled his eyes. "You better not be jerkin' me around about those air fresheners." He gave Sam a meaningful look, then stalked out of the garage, back to work.

Yeah, he got it. Sam grinned goofily at his brother's retreating back, his stupid eyes stinging. Then he sniffed and nodded to himself as he pulled out his phone. He'd look up air fresheners first, and then, well, he wouldn't wash the car…but he could take her to a car wash that would do it for him.

00000

He'd thought Sam was in bed. The guy had overdone it, cleaning out the car, making a run for pizza and beer _and_ a car wash, then making up fresh beds for them both. Dean knew his brother's arm was bothering him, and that he hadn't gotten enough sleep during those weeks Dean didn't need sleep. He'd all but tucked Sam in after dinner.

So he scrambled when Sam appeared at the library door, shutting the laptop and his journal with a look of _who, me?_ that he knew had never fooled Sam, darn it.

Sam did quirk an eyebrow at him, but only said, "Got hungry."

"You want me to fix you—?" Dean was already halfway to his feet, mentally running through their long-term stores: oatmeal, frozen bacon, canned soup.

Sam waved him down with his good hand. "Just gonna grab a bagel. You want anything?"

"I'm good," Dean said, reluctantly settling back into his seat. He tracked Sam to the kitchen by sound, ready to go help at the first sound of cursing or falling cutlery.

It wasn't the first time that week he was surprised to ponder how much trouble demon-him had had tracking Sam down. Sound carried in the bunker, and Sam was a good hunter but he was six-five and handicapped. But more, Dean knew the guy better than he knew himself. Even now, he could trace Sam pulling the bagels out of the fridge instead of the bread box where Dean kept telling him to put the bread, then setting it down because he'd forgotten again to get out a plate first, then pushing the butter aside in the fridge to get to the cream cheese he preferred. The squeaky silverware drawer was pulled out, then pushed back in a second later as Sam realized once more that he couldn't really spread cream cheese one-handed. Finally he clomped back out into the library, plate in hand containing a whole bagel and the container of cream cheese he would dip it in.

Dean half-hoped he would head back to his room, but Sam pulled out the chair across from him instead and dropped into it. Once he had a mouthful of bagel, he nodded at the closed laptop. "Case?"

"No," Dean said quickly.

Sam eyed him again, not saying anything. Waiting him out.

"Research," Dean finally said, because he hated expectant silences. "Just on, uh, a couple of things from when I was gone."

Sam swallowed. "The girl?" he asked before taking another bite.

Dean had told him about Anne-Marie from the bar. He nodded. "Her, too." He didn't mention the money he'd already mailed her, with as much of an apology as he could make.

"Lester?" Sam asked knowingly.

Another thing they'd talked about, or at least around. He knew Sam had set the guy up, Sam knew Dean had killed him. He wasn't proud of it, but there'd be no apology for that one. "No."

Sam nodded slowly, continuing to eat in silence that was shared now instead of weighted.

Dean finally gave in and scooped a chunk of cream cheese onto his finger to lick off. He saw Sam's mouth twist and gave him a warning look. He never said he didn't like cream cheese, just razzed Sam for liking it on his _sesame seed bagels._ There was a difference.

Sam polished off the last bite and put the top on the cream cheese as he stood. "You turning in soon?"

"Soon," Dean agreed, then nodded at the plate. "I'll clean up."

Sam, the rat, recognized the move for what it was, trying to help him instead of just wanting more cheese. Whatever; as long as they didn't talk about it, it didn't count. Sam yawned a good-night and shuffled back to his room.

Dean stared after him a while. Got up to put away the cream cheese and the dirty plate, and move the bagels from the fridge to the bread box.

Then returned to the library, opened up the laptop and his notebook, and continued his search for one Cole Trenton.

00000

Sam parked the car, got out, and opened the trunk. He studied the contents and sighed. He'd been injured for how many weeks? And he still forgot to get bags with handles.

He'd just managed to shimmy one brown paper bag into the crook of his good arm when Dean appeared at his side. Without a word, his brother gathered up the other two and led the way to the kitchen.

"I thought you hit the store yesterday?" he asked. Which they both knew Sam had, and that the question really was, _Where were you?_ Or maybe, because Dean still stupidly thought Sam was skittish around him, _You know you don't have to keep going out, right?_

"I did. Forgot some stuff," Sam said shortly. The contents of the bags would soon answer for him.

Dean helped him unpack, of course. Didn't say a word at the bags of Doritoes and M&Ms and licorice. Or the two six-packs of beer. Raised an eyebrow at the economy-sized bottle of popping corn and the container of something called Moose Munch. But he only turned to look at Sam when he pulled out the two unmistakable twine-wrapped boxes of Mrs. F's pies.

"'Forgot some stuff'?" he repeated disbelievingly. "Like what, all my favorites?" He set down the pie and looked soberly at Sam. "Seriously, you really don't have to do this, you know."

Sam didn't have to ask what he meant. He shrugged one-shouldered. "You, either."

Dean breathed out and propped both arms against the counter, head hanging. "I tried to kill you, Sam. I know you're over it, but I'm not, okay?"

"I know," Sam said quietly. "And what I said to you, after Gadreel—"

"Over it."

"Well, I'm not there yet, either, all right?"

They stood there a moment, surrounded by forgiveness but not ready to let it in. Dean had yet to forgot where that patched spot on the wall was, and Sam still woke up every morning trying to remember if Dean was gone or not.

Dean finally straightened. "Movie night?"

Sam felt his posture soften. He busied himself putting away the candy, and purposely didn't look at Dean. "All right. Uh, did you and your BFF go to the movies?"

Dean sounded disgusted. "Crowley was _not_ my BFF. And can you see him going to a movie?"

That made him feel oddly better. Sam shut the cabinet door and turned back. " _Guardians of the Galaxy_ got good reviews _."_

Dean was checking out the pies. "That out on DVD yet?"

"When's that stopped me?"

Dean paused, and nodded a _touché._ Then he held up a container. "'Moose Munch'? Seriously?"

Sam colored a little. "They had samples at the store." He grabbed the canister. "It's good."

"Whatever." Arms full, Dean turned toward the stove. "I'll make popcorn, you find the movie."

"Okay." He paused at the door. "No licorice in it."

"Dude, that was one time!"

"It was gross."

"Your face is gross."

Sam bit down on a smile. "You're a moron."

"Yeah, well, you're…"

He was out of the room before Dean could think of a suitable comeback.

Name-calling, unhealthy snacks, a movie, and his brother: just another Winchester night.

Thank God.

 **The End**


End file.
